


The Promised Land

by LastAmericanMermaid



Series: Born to Run [1]
Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bucky Barnes Feels, Captain America Sam Wilson, Civil War Fix-It, Domestic, Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Memories, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Recovery, Steve Rogers and the 21st Century, Tony and Steve make up, there is literally one exchange regarding past buckynat so it's really not a big deal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-07-10 19:52:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,339
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7004152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LastAmericanMermaid/pseuds/LastAmericanMermaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a house in Bar Harbor, Maine. </p><p>It needs a lot of work, but so do the men who live in it. </p><p>(Steve and Bucky run away together, and Bucky relearns how to be a person. There is hurt, comfort, sex, love, friendship, and the reclaiming of the trigger words Hydra programmed him with. The Avengers reconcile, but nobody asks Steve to come back. Leave them to retirement in peace.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  
1.

_Longing._

  
The Soldier knows nothing except for what he is told—

—at least, that is what Hydra believes.

They are unaware of the smooth, heavy stone which sits just behind the Soldier’s ribs, the stone upon which is engraved all the love one James Buchanan Barnes had within himself to give. And that love was given to Steven Rogers, forever, amen.

The Soldier wakes from cryofreeze with an emptiness he cannot shake, a pull he can’t seem to pinpoint the origin of, nor cut the thread which tugs as if by some invisible hand. He wakes with one word, a name, burning a hole through his dry tongue: Steve.

Again and again they condition him, they put him in baths of ice and give him a thousand tiny cuts and rub salt into them. They crank the voltage up higher and higher, and he opens his mouth before each time, receiving the rubber mouthguard the way he used to receive Communion.

The Soldier gets snatches of memory sometimes; they come and go, but they are always more or less the same. They feature a blue-eyed boy, blond and freckled, with a determined set to his jaw and a furrow between his eyebrows. Sometimes, the boy is small, with thin shoulders and a split lip. Other times, he is big, muscled and strong, wearing a suit like the American flag.

The last thing the Soldier thinks of before he is frozen again is always the same, too; he thinks Steve, and he remembers kissing that split lip, tasting blood.

He remembers until they take it from him again, that is.

It never stays away for long.  
  


. .

  
When he wakes from the freeze again, this time with a stump where the metal arm used to be, this time with his still mending memories intact, Bucky is not alone.

There aren’t Hydra scientists looming above him, there is no one waiting with implements of pain or missions to be completed. There is one doctor, keeping her distance, somewhere off to the left. There is the Wakandan king T’Challa, calm and resolutely regal, in a chair near the doctor.

Then, finally, at Bucky’s side, there is Steve. Steve, who is wearing a soft-looking shirt and an even softer expression, like he’s been waiting for this moment. It does not occur to Bucky until later that, perhaps, he has.

Bucky feels the sharp, quick stab of want, same as always when it comes to Steve. He’d felt it on the bridge that day, when he was still under Hydra’s control. When Steve had said his name, he’d felt it. They knew, somehow. The crueler, more perceptive operatives always knew. Like the one who became Crossbones; he’d taunted Bucky, told him how they would make him kill Steve. Called him dirty words and asked him worse questions.

“It’s why they picked it as one of my triggers,” Bucky says to Steve, his voice thick and hoarse from disuse. “ _Zhelaniye_ ,” he adds in perfect Russian when he sees the question in Steve’s eyes.

“Buck,” Steve reaches for Bucky’s hand, the only one he has now. “the triggers won’t work anymore. There’s a guy we found, Dr. Strange—he said he fixed it.”

Bucky has so many things he wants to say to Steve, but they won’t come.

He closes his eyes. Breathes deeply; in through the nose, out through the mouth. He wonders if it is normal to feel this tired after being asleep for so long.

When he opens his eyes again, Bucky sees that he is no longer in the lab, but in a comfortable—if overly large—bedroom. By his side, in an armchair reading, is Steve.   
  
When he sees that Bucky is waking up, he hastily marks his page and sets his book aside.

“How do you feel?” he asks, voice gentle and tentative. This is how Steve is with Bucky, now; soft and concerned. Bucky thinks he remembers a time when he was bolder, more snarky. Bucky wants Steve to stop treating him like he’s made of glass.

“Like I got hit by a truck,” Bucky offers gruffly. Then, seeing Steve’s worried frown, he adds, “ _Relax_ , Steve. It’s not that bad.”

Steve huffs, crossing his arms and looking unhappy.

“I don’t want you to have to hurt anymore,” he says, sounding miserable. “I want you to feel safe.”

Bucky looks around the room, noting with pleasure that the view from the huge windows shows high, secluded mountains. Wakanda, especially here in T’Challa’s fortress, is about as far out of reach from anyone wishing him harm as Bucky can be.

A few moments pass in silence, both men thinking.

Then, Bucky sits up a little, struggling to prop up his pillows with just the one arm. Steve practically springs out of his seat to help, and it makes Bucky want to roll his eyes. It would have made the old Bucky roll his eyes, anyhow.

“Get in bed with me,” Bucky says suddenly, his pulse climbing steadily in his chest as he gives voice to what he’s just realized it is that he needs.

Steve looks almost comically surprised, as though this is the last thing he expected to hear. As though they’ve never shared beds far smaller than this before.

“Bucky,” Steve chokes on the word a little. His cheeks, Bucky notices, are nearly red.

Bucky stares at Steve flatly, refusing to blink.

“Get in the damn bed, Steve,” he sounds, surprisingly, as irritated as he feels. “I’m tired, and I’m cold, and I”—this part is hard to say, as if his brain still hasn’t fully accepted that he’s allowed to have this again—“I need you, okay?”

Steve makes a pained sound, low in his throat, and covers his face with his hands for several moments. When he lifts his head again, Bucky can see the telltale redness around his eyes, his nose, his lips—Bucky knows all of Steve Rogers’ faces, and his crying face is no exception.

“Okay, Buck,” Steve says wetly, sniffling a little and wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand.

He toes off his shoes and does as Bucky has asked. The bed dips a little under Steve’s weight, and Bucky’s stomach flips a bit because this is real, it’s not a dream, not a hallucination. When Steve’s settled down under the covers, Bucky rolls into his side, burying his nose in Steve’s neck.

He still smells the same, Bucky thinks faintly. Even now, even here.

“I didn’t know if you remembered this,” Steve says quietly, and he brings his arm up to wrap around Bucky, hand resting flat between Bucky’s shoulder blades.

“Steve,” Bucky sighs, nosing at the stubble covering Steve’s jaw, “I never forgot this.”

And that’s all it takes, apparently, to get Steve rolling onto his side so he can press their bodies together, bringing his hand up to rest on Bucky’s cheek.

Their legs tangle up together, same as they ever did. Some things are just too deeply ingrained to be taken away, Bucky thinks, as Steve’s sock-covered feet press against his.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, almost in a whisper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Then, they are kissing.

It is the first kiss they’ve shared since 1944, and Bucky still feels that pull, that ache.

With each pass of breath between them, with each scrape of Steve’s beard against Bucky’s, Bucky notes that this is the most human he has felt since 1944.

There is wetness on their cheeks, salt trails interrupting their kisses, and Steve never stops saying he’s sorry.  
  


After a long time of just that, they settle into the pillows, still holding each other. Steve’s nose has gone even pinker, like it always used to when he’d been crying or had a cold. Bucky shivers with sudden chill, and Steve immediately pulls him closer, body warm as if his blood is fire in his veins.

“Means ‘longing,’” Bucky says softly, not bothering to explain further. Steve, judging by the small, broken noise he makes, knows perfectly well what Bucky means.

“I’m sorry I never came for you,” Steve says, and the deepness of his voice hits a hidden string at Bucky’s core, makes it vibrate.

“But you did,” Bucky tells him, eyelids growing heavy again. “As soon as you knew, you did.”

  
There are no more words spoken between them that night.  
  


They fall asleep wrapped tightly around each other, like vines. Like tree roots. As is so often found in nature, they’ve just grown that way.  
  


Bucky breathes deeply the scent of Steve, the scent of everything he has not been allowed to have for over seventy years. His chest aches, and his throat is tight, but he is happy.  
  


. . .

2.  
  
 _Rusted_. _rzhavet_ ’  

  
Some mornings, Bucky doesn’t want to leave the warm cocoon of his and Steve’s bed.  
  


Some mornings, this is because he is comfortable and feels safe and happy, and he doesn’t want that bubble of contentedness to burst.

Other days, it is because the weight of what he has done—what Steve tells him over and over that he was forced to do, that these things were not Bucky’s fault—is too heavy for him to bear on his uneven shoulders. On these days, Bucky lets himself remember every kill that he can, every ruthless, cold-blooded mission that he completed with brutal efficiency. He lets himself think back to every time Hydra scientists shoved that rubber mouthguard into his willing mouth, every time they cranked up the voltage after strapping him into that chair.

Sometimes, Bucky screams into a pillow, raw and painful, until his voice nearly disappears. Steve will bring him tea with honey, not saying anything with words but saying it all with his sad, soft eyes.

Sometimes—and these are the worst times—Bucky is numb, to everything. He walks around like a ghost, feeling nothing and thinking in fragments, the way he used to when he was the Soldier.

It happens when the weather gets cooler, more so when winter finally creeps in with its knife. Bucky doesn’t have much stomach for the cold, nowadays. He doesn’t like what it makes him remember.

And it was true, what Bucky told Stark’s son that awful day in Siberia. He remembers them, all of them, the people he killed. Bucky will never be free of this knowledge, that he was turned into a weapon.

Then, what makes it worse—or what makes it bearable; Bucky is never sure which—is that they did it to Steve, too. Turned him into a weapon to be fired. SHIELD did it in a more insidious way, by appealing to the part of Steve Rogers who never could hear about wrong being done without stepping in to fight the good fight. They turned Steve into a weapon and a symbol, then got mad when he had the nerve to be what they made him.

Sometimes, Bucky thinks about leaving the house quietly, about packing a bag and taking Steve’s bike, just riding as far away as he can. He doesn’t want to die, not anymore—but sometimes he thinks he should just disappear. Start over. Atone.

He thinks about this as he lies in his blanket cocoon until he hears the clanging of pots and pans downstairs in the kitchen, the noise jarring him out of his thoughts. Reminding him that Steve is down there, probably seconds away from starting a small fire in his attempt to cook, and Bucky’s heart just aches.

It’s familiar, this sharpness that hits just below his ribs, that reminder of what he’d be leaving behind if he did up and go. Maybe it’s selfish, but Bucky isn’t willing to give that up. Not now that he’s got it all to himself, out here near the woods and the sea with no one hunting them down.

The sounds of Steve puttering around downstairs are what inevitably draw Bucky out of his cave, they are what calls him home, like a lighthouse in a storm.  
  


He stands on legs that are mostly steady, and reminds himself that he is a person, he has to breathe, to keep going. He tells himself that he deserves to be here, and he mostly believes it.

  
When Steve kisses him, and doesn’t try to soothe with trite platitudes, Bucky believes it a little more.   
  
  
He can do this. He’s just a little rusty.  
  


. . .

  
3.

 _Seventeen_. _semnadtsat_ ’    
  


Bucky turns seventeen on an unseasonably warm day for March.

His knuckles are raw from where they’d grazed a brick wall behind some sorry punk who’d thought picking on Steve was a good idea. His body feels too big for his skin, and all he wants is something he is sure he can never have.

But just when you think you’re certain of the rules, life goes and changes them on you.

Bucky is aware of this, but he’s never been so glad of it as he is when Steve falls into his arms, when Steve surges up bravely to press their mouths together.

It’s dangerous; Bucky knows what happens to queers who get caught. He knows, but he can’t bring himself to care, not when Steve is under him on his creaky old bed, turning pink and making the prettiest sounds. Bucky wants to freeze this moment in time, to be able to hold it in the palm of his hand someday when he’s old and grey.

  
Steve kisses just like Bucky dreamed he would, only better.

. .  
  


“Do you remember the first time?” Bucky asks Steve one quiet afternoon, both of them sitting at the cramped kitchen table, knees bumping and bare toes nudging shins.

  
Steve looks up from the crossword puzzle he’s currently failing at, a brightness behind his eyes that makes Bucky’s pulse jump a little, makes him swallow thickly.

  
“Gonna have to be a little more specific than that, Buck,” Steve says teasingly, eyes twinkling now.

  
And it speaks volumes to their relationship, how things have become—if not easy, then certainly easier—between them, that Steve can sass Bucky with a little smile tugging at his lips even after everything they’ve been. After everything they’ve done.

Bucky makes a frustrated noise low in his throat, kicking at Steve’s shin under the table.

“The first time we…” he looks meaningfully at Steve, raising his eyebrows. “Y’know.”

Steve looks like he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. His cheeks turn that pretty pink, though, and there’s such fondness in his expression, directed at Bucky, that Bucky has to lower his eyes for a second.

Then, Steve sets down his folded newspaper. He reaches across the small table to hold Bucky’s hand between both of his, big and solid and warm.

“Idiot,” Steve says happily, adoringly; his thumb strokes over Bucky’s wrist lightly, and Bucky feels shivery and good. “Of course I remember it.”

Bucky isn’t sure what answer he was expecting, if not this, but still—still, he is surprised by the certainty in Steve’s voice, by the casual, easy way that Steve bares his soul with his face.

More than the fact that he has not lost the ability to love, Bucky still can’t believe sometimes that Steve has not lost any love for him. Even separated by near on eighty years, ice and oceans, torture and pain—even after all of that, Steve still wants Bucky more than he wants anything else.

It’s humbling. Awe-inspiring, even.

  
“I was seventeen,” Bucky breathes, sliding his knee between Steve’s under the table. “You were eighteen, with a busted lip and a black eye.”

  
And this part, this part is still so new, the awakening of wants inside of him. Bucky wasn’t sure if he’d ever get them back, not at first, but being with Steve has done wonders for rehabilitating Bucky’s itches what need scratching.

It’s so novel, still, just to want at all. The first time—after he and Steve found a place to settle—that he’d felt his cock stiffen up in the shower, Bucky had stared at it for several frantic seconds before doing what came natural. He’d stroked himself under the hot spray of the shower, thinking of Steve, until it felt too good and he came with a gasp all over his hand.

A few weeks after that, he’d finally worked up the nerve to ask Steve if he wanted to—if he’d let Bucky get him off, too. Since then, it’s been a natural progression, relearning his own body as well as Steve’s, each new thing like a gift after so much has been taken away from him. From them.

  
Now, here in the present, Steve’s lips part slightly. His breathing goes just a tiny bit shallower, and the breath catches when Bucky’s knee slots between his.

“You coulda had anyone, Buck,” Steve says, in that deep, low voice that makes Bucky’s blood sing.

He looks down shyly, then up again so his eyes meet Steve’s. He smiles a little, tiny half-smile.

  
“I wanted you, though,” he says, already tingling with anticipation. “Wanted you then, want you now.”

  
And it really is that simple, which is a miracle in and of itself. So many things have been an uphill struggle with no footholds for Bucky, but not this; never this. Wanting Steve and loving him, those things have always come as natural as breathing to Bucky. No matter how they tried, Hydra couldn’t twist that love, couldn’t ruin it.

“When you say ‘now,’” Steve says conversationally, calm voice in contrast to his flushed face, “are you talking about, like, the abstract ‘now,’ or do you mean _now_ -now? Because…”

“Fuck you, abstract,” Bucky mutters. Then, he brings one of Steve’s hands up to his lips, takes Steve’s finger into his mouth. Swirls his tongue around the callused tip, lets himself feel pleased and proud at the way Steve’s breath hitches. “I mean right the hell now, Rogers.”

  
They nearly knock the table over, in their rush to make it to the stairs. A painting that Steve did—of the lighthouse just a mile or so down the beach—hanging in the stairwell, is an unfortunate casualty of their urgency.

  
In bed, Bucky feels freer than anywhere else these days.

He forgets himself, but in a way that doesn’t make him feel sick or ashamed or broken. He forgets everything except him and Steve. There has to be some good in him still, the way Steve looks at him with that mix of dazed wonder and lust and love. There has to be some good in Bucky yet, if he can make Steve look at him like that.

Bucky has mostly moved past grieving the loss of his arm—the original, and then the bionic weapon—but in these moments tangled up with Steve, he has to bite back a curse that he can’t get both hands all over Steve’s body.

  
When they’re sprawled out on the tangled sheets, clothing completely out of the equation, Bucky has one of those odd moments of clarity that sometimes blindside him nowadays.

He looks up at Steve, who is arching his back and whimpering, eyes scrunched shut as Bucky takes all of Steve into his mouth. He remembers other times they did this, when Steve was skinny and his heavy breathing was more to do with asthma than with any heated moment of passion. Bucky remembers after Steve got big, how he’d eagerly put his hands and mouth on every part of Steve, determined to memorize everything about this new body his favorite soul was housed in.

Most importantly, though, he remembers the way that this felt. The blissful slide of Steve in his mouth, the texture and the taste. Leaning so he can rest his left shoulder on Steve’s abdomen, Bucky works the shaft of Steve’s cock with his right hand, flicking the tip with his tongue.

When Steve comes apart—all breathy and beautiful, flushed all the way down his chest—Bucky feels several things; he feels pride, pride at being able to do this. He feels his own desire, flaring hot in his blood. He feels that overwhelming love, too, the one that always seemed to pull him to Steve like magnetic north.

Then, because Steve asks so nicely, Bucky slicks him up with lubricant, pushes his fingers inside, groaning at that tightness and heat.

  
When Steve is sweating and begging and cursing, Bucky pushes inside him, hissing at the feel of being in Steve.

After a few minutes, Steve flips them over inelegantly, straddling Bucky and guiding Bucky’s slicked cock back into himself. Watching Steve ride him, with his head tipped back and his hips setting the rhythm, makes Bucky feel half-crazy with need.

“You like that?” he hears himself ask, voice gone hoarse with lust. “You like riding me, babydoll?”

And Steve _does_ , he can’t get enough of it, if the sounds he’s making are anything to go by. They go on like that a little while longer, until Bucky’s fingers dig into Steve’s hip, and Steve’s dick goes off like a shot, painting Bucky’s stomach with stripes of sticky white. Bucky can’t hold out after that, seeing the way Steve comes without so much as a finger on him. He fills Steve up, biting his own lip until he tastes blood.

They disentangle when Bucky starts to soften, and Steve cleans them off with some of the baby wipes he keeps in the nightstand. Spring has just finally broken, and outside their window, Bucky can see the beginnings of a thunderstorm darkening the sky.

  
“Good weather for a nap,” Steve remarks, sounding loose and happy. He reaches for Bucky, and Bucky lays down, head pillowed on Steve’s chest.

  
“Such a bum,” Bucky says fondly, smiling into Steve’s clavicle. “Always wantin’ to nap.”

Steve only wraps his arm tighter around Bucky’s waist, like a kid with a teddy bear, and Bucky feels his heart swell with that overflowing, terrifying feeling it always has where Steve’s concerned. He remembers how upsetting it was when he first realized the depths of that love, how he knew that there was nothing he would not do for Steve, nothing he did not want to be for him.

“ _Semnadsat_ ’,” Bucky whispers into the salty skin of Steve’s neck, remembering how old he was that first time, that first kiss. Then, because he thinks his chest might explode if he doesn’t, he says, “I love you so much. Too much.”

  
“No such thing, Buck,” Steve mumbles, already beginning to doze.

  
The storm cranks up outside their window, lightning flashing across the purple-black sky in wide lines like tree branches. The wind howls, the waves crash on the rocks, and Steve snores just inches away from Bucky’s ear.

  
Bucky drifts in and out of sleep, still not accustomed to so much rest, so much safety.  
  
  


 Rain pelts the window, and Bucky listens to Steve’s heartbeat.

  
. . .  
  
4.

 _Daybreak_. _rassvet_

  
Steve has always been an early riser.  
  


Ever since he was young, as far back as he can remember, he was up before the sun.

Bucky, on the other hand, was the sort of boy whose ma had to drag him out of bed with both hands, steal his blankets and send his younger siblings in to make noise. He used to mumble and swear and ask for a few more minutes, ignoring his alarm clock until the absolute last second.

When they lived together before, Bucky was always trying to keep Steve in bed longer, holding him around the waist and refusing to let him up. Steve usually gave a half-hearted protest before giving in, as if letting Bucky nuzzle into his neck sleepily was some great hardship.

  
Now, though, Bucky’s already up most days when Steve wakes, sometimes still in bed, sometimes not.

Steve likes when he wakes up with Bucky still next to him, his expression unguarded and pleased. He likes when he comes downstairs to find Bucky reading the paper and sipping coffee, black and sugared to death.

He likes when Bucky’s out on the porch, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, reading a book or talking on the phone to Natasha.

What he likes best, though, is when he wakes up to find Bucky still fast asleep, his face years younger with the peace sleep brings. Steve could watch Bucky like that forever, and sometimes he gets his sketchbook just so he can try to capture it before the other man wakes. These mornings are few and far between, and Steve treasures them.

(He holds tight to each day they are given here, for each day no one comes to kick down their door and tell them that it was all a big lie, that they don’t really get to have this; that they’ll never really be free to be their own people.)

  
This morning, Bucky’s not in any of his usual places. Steve feels the mild beginnings of anxiety creeping in, but then his eyes land on a sheet of paper torn from a yellow legal pad that’s been left on the kitchen table.

It’s Bucky’s hasty scrawl, still the same as it was in 1938, and Steve’s relief is almost embarrassing.

_Steve,_

_Went to town for supplies at 04:35. Be back in an hour or so._   
_Don’t go getting all bent outta shape. Just sit tight._   
_  
—Bucky_

_P.S. you looked like a damn dream this morning._

  
Steve does his best not to count the minutes til Bucky’s return, but it’s a close thing. He finishes the crossword without consulting his dictionary at all—which for a Friday puzzle, he counts as a win—and eats two pieces of toast with butter and strawberry jam.

At 5:40, Steve hears the roar of his bike coming up the dirt road, and his whole body unclenches. He tries to look casual, like he hasn’t been sitting here like a puppy, waiting for Bucky to come home.

  
“Would you believe it, I got caught in traffic on the main road?” Bucky grins, hanging the keys to the bike on the little hook near the door.

He’s flushed from the chill that’s still hanging around in the air, and his hair is mussed from the helmet. He sets a white wax paper bag down on the table, eyebrows raised, and when Steve looks inside, he sees that it is full of powdered-sugar dusted pastries, glazed donuts, and danishes leaking fruit filling.

  
“You went to the bakery?” he asks, smiling so wide it hurts. “Is it our anniversary, or somethin’?”

Bucky scowls, but the effect is ruined by the way his mouth keeps trying to go back into a smile. He sits down across from Steve, bumping their knees together under the table.

“What, a guy can’t do something nice for his fella just because he feels like it?” he asks, looking every inch the charmer he has always been.

Steve reaches into the bag and pulls out an eclair, vanilla icing melting a little from the warm pastry. When he bites into it, a little of the custard catches in the corner of his mouth, and Bucky reaches across the table to wipe it away with his finger, which he then sticks in his mouth, sucking it clean.

“You’re disgusting,” Steve tells him, taking another huge bite of eclair, then moans. “ _Fuck_ , this is good.”

Bucky pulls the bag over to his side, taking something rectangular and sugar-dusted from it.

“Stop making your sex face at that eclair, Rogers,” he says around a mouthful of pastry. “Gonna make me jealous.”  
  


Things end up, as they so often do, with sticky-fingered touches and kisses that taste like custard and jam and sugar.  
  


They make a bit of a mess, but that’s fine.  
  


They’re still out on the back porch in time to watch the sunrise.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more, this time, with friends.

5.

_Furnace. pech’_   
  


Being small and frail as he is, Steve never can hold body heat.  
  


It is with the excuse of keeping him warm that Bucky curls around him every night when they move in together, chest pressed against the bony knobs of Steve’s spine.

  
At least, it is at first—after the kiss, that first night spent drunk on each other’s touch, there is no more need for excuses. Not behind the closed and locked apartment door. Bucky wraps himself around Steve, holding tight until the shivering subsides and Steve can drift peacefully into sleep.

  
Sometimes, they don’t sleep; Bucky has a hundred and one other things to do that can keep Steve’s heat up, things that involved the bed, but no sleeping. Steve is game to try all of them, and Bucky loves him so much. Too much.

  
Bucky feels like he is exactly where he was supposed to be when he is tangled up with Steve.

. .  
  


After the serum, after Steve’s daring—read: _fucking stupid_ —rescue of Bucky from the Hydra base, there isn’t the need for shared heat anymore.

At least, not on Steve’s side of things.

  
His new body, all shiny and beautiful and wrong, puts out heat like a furnace. Bucky had been stung at first, seeing this new Steve. He had been mad as hell when he found out what Steve had gone through to get it, too.

  
But when they’re shivering in their tents on the way back to base, Bucky sharing Steve’s, that impressive, foreign new body starts to look pretty inviting. When Steve offers half of his bedroll to Bucky, well. Bucky’s not too proud to lie down next to the human furnace that the scrawny boy he loves has become. He rolls into that warmth, lets Steve hold him.

  
The chill is deep in his bones, from being strapped to Zola’s table to the sweat-damp clothes he’s been wearing for a month, and it takes a long time before Steve’s heat starts to seep into Bucky.

  
. .

  
Winter is not Bucky’s favorite season, nor is it Steve’s.

  
They bundle up in blankets, cranking the thermostat up higher than they’d ever dared back in the before, when they had to save every penny.   
The snow is pretty, but neither one of them is overly fond of snow. Not anymore.

Winter seems more and more like something to be endured, like a time for hibernation. It’s a good thing they don’t have anywhere to be, no one calling them away.

They can hole up in their mostly-fixed up house, with their blankets and cable-knit socks, drinking hot chocolate spiked with brandy and eating more soup than is necessarily healthy. They can close the blinds and pretend that the world outside is not white and crystallized over with ice and snow.

Bucky curls into Steve’s warm body more than ever in the winter, like he’s trying to suck up every last bit of that heat. It’s not like Steve minds; he’ll never complain about Bucky in his arms.

They spend a lot of time on the couch during the winter months, only venturing outside when they get too stir-crazy, or they need more supplies. Nobody comes over, so they don’t shovel the walkway. Bucky laughs so hard when Steve even tries to suggest that they ought to, that he doesn’t ask again.

The cold makes the stump of Bucky’s left arm ache, fuck if he knows why. He grits his teeth and tries to ignore as best he can, until one day, Steve notices and tells him to stop being such a stubborn asshole.

Steve rubs the knobby, ugly end of Bucky’s missing arm, methodically and deeply until the pain starts to melt away, and Bucky’s jaw unclenches.

  
Later, when they’re engrossed in some mind-numbingly weird movie on some channel called Lifetime, Bucky burrows under Steve’s blanket like a cat. The heat Steve radiates is just enough to make Bucky’s bones forget the chill of winter.

  
. . .  
  
6.

_Nine. devyat’_   
  


Nine months.  
  


They’ve been in this house for nine whole months without so much as a knock at the door, and then, one day, one comes.

Bucky answers it, still in sweats, hair tied back in a bun and wearing yesterday’s shirt.

  
“Can Steve come out and play?”  
  


It’s Natasha, who Bucky is ashamed that it took him so long to remember, and she’s wearing a knit cap that makes her look too adorable to be as deadly as she is.

  
“Steve’s in the shower,” Bucky says. “But you can come in and wait,” he adds, opening the door a little wider.  
  


“Thanks,” Natasha smiles prettily, muscling him out of the way to get inside. She thrusts a bottle of vodka into his hand, and when he checks the label, Bucky sees that it’s top shelf.

  
They sit down in the living room, and Bucky wonders why he doesn’t feel more awkward in this moment. He figures he’s probably too old, too used up to feel awkward anymore.

“So, all those times we had sex back in the Red Room,” Natasha says casually “were you just pretending I was Steve?”

Bucky, were he drinking something, would be choking on it. As it is, he still gasps a little, unprepared for such an unprecedented, sneaky move.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he coughs, “If I say no, will you agree to never bring up anything about our past adventures in front of Steve?”

Natasha smirks, shifting positions on the sofa so she can stretch her legs out.  
  


“You look much better,” she tells him, fixing him with her unwavering gaze. “He’s helping, isn’t he.”  
  


She says it like that, like it isn’t even a question. Bucky supposes that it isn’t, not really.

  
“Who’s helping what now?” Steve chooses this moment to return, hair still damp and skin still pink from the hot shower. “Nat, you didn’t say you were coming.”

  
Natasha stands up and accepts the bear hug Steve gives her, and Bucky feels just the tiniest bit bad for taking Steve away from people he clearly cares about.  
  


“I thought I’d stop by, see how the old folks are enjoying the pasture.” she says, waving a hand. “I brought vodka.”  
  


“Thanks,” Steve says automatically. “I can’t get drunk, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it when you come for visits.”  
  


“Naturally,” Natasha’s eyes crinkle a little at the corners. “They’ve got Wilson doing the Cap thing now,” she adds.  
  


“Yeah, I saw that in the paper,” Steve nods, sitting down next to Bucky on the other couch. “Also, he did email me about it. How’s that going?”

Natasha shrugs, but her smile gives her away. “He’s good at it. You’d approve.”

Steve grins. “I don’t doubt that at all. Does he still wear the wings?”   
  
“Yep, all decked out in red, white, and blue now.”

“Christ, Stevie, and I thought that getup couldn’t possibly get anymore ridiculous,” Bucky drawls, the words leaving his mouth before he can think about what he’s saying.

Natasha, startling herself more than anyone, bursts out with a peal of laughter, musical and loud.

“I’m bringing Wilson next time, I hear he and Barnes get on like a house on fire.”  
  


. .  
  


Natasha stays the night, partly because the roads are still icy, but mostly because she knows Steve likes playing host.

The three of them eat dinner together, then spend a few hours taking shots of vodka and watching mindless television. Natasha gets a kick out of watching Steve and Bucky watch reality shows, so they humor her.

When Steve’s in the bathroom, Natasha looks at Bucky for a long moment, not saying anything. After a little while, she smiles, and it reaches her eyes fully.

“I get it now,” she tells him, and Bucky doesn’t bother asking what it is she means. “I get the thing between you, why it meant so much to him. Why he risked everything for you.”

Bucky shifts uncomfortably, unsure of what to say.

“I’ve never seen him this way,” she continues, leaning in a little. “Happy.”

“Is he?” Bucky can’t help asking, feeling earnest and stupid. “Happy?”

Natasha rolls her eyes, cheeks flushed a little from the vodka. She’s lovely.

“He’s smiled more in the past four hours than he has in all the time I’ve known him.”

Bucky thinks about that, warmth curling in his chest.

“Oh,” he says.

Natasha raises a perfect brow, lips curving in a smirk. “ _Oh_ ,” she agrees.

. .  
  


“Are you happy?” Bucky asks, before Steve can even fully open his eyes. His voice is rusty with sleep, but there is an anxiousness at the edges that makes Steve wake up quickly.

  
“What? Of course,” he says, rolling over so he can look Bucky in the face. “Are you kidding me?”

Bucky seems to mull this over, crease forming between his eyebrows. Then, he sighs, a full-body sigh, like he’s relieved.

“You always were a shit liar,” he says. “I had to ask, just to make sure.”

“Why wouldn’t I be happy?” Steve wonders aloud, more to himself than to Bucky. “I have you.”

Bucky ducks his head, rolling his eyes and making a big show of being cynical.

“Sap,” he says, but it comes out sounding too fond.

Steve pulls him in for a kiss, then sits up.

“Let’s make pancakes,” he says.  
  


When Natasha comes downstairs, there is a plate of pancakes piled high waiting for her, and two ex-supersoldiers making out like a couple of kids against the counter.

She takes a bite of pancakes and takes a moment to enjoy the way they melt on her tongue. She watches with smiling eyes as the two men untangle themselves somewhat sheepishly, and sit down in their respective seats. 

Under the table, Steve and Bucky’s knees bump against hers, but nobody moves; nobody minds.  
  


It has been nine months, but it feels like everything is new.  
  


. . .

7.   
  
 _Benign. dobrokachestvenyy_  
  


When Bucky was younger, he was always angry.  
  


Not in the same way Steve was angry, but similar enough that they walked around breathing smoke out their noses half the time.

Sometimes, Bucky would get into scrapes on purpose, just to feel the crack of his knuckles against some punk’s jaw, just so that throbbing monster inside of him could get some relief.

  
When he went off to war, he killed enemy soldiers and thought, this is what I was made for.  
  


.  
  


Maybe that’s why being the Soldier was something he resigned himself to, after so much torture. Bucky likes to think that he could have held out longer, if he had been a better man.

Maybe he was always meant to be a cocked fist, a cocked gun, loaded and ready.  
  


. .  
  


Sometimes, Bucky buys boards, big rectangles of wood, just so he can break them.  
  


He gets angry, some days, and his fingers itch to curl into a fist. He wants to punch someone, so he settles for breaking boards.

Steve buys punching bags, five at a time, and hangs them up from a hook in the rafters of their empty garage. They take turns beating the sand out of them, fists flying and teeth gritted, until they’re sweaty and panting and a little less furious.

Steve says that it’s normal to be mad, and Bucky wants to ask if it’s normal to be born mad, but he’s not sure he really wants the answer.

Besides, if he was born mad, so was Steve, and they’re cut from the same pissed-off cloth.

  
He likes that.  
  


He kicks the shit out of another bag, then kisses Steve breathless.  
  


. . .  
  
8.

 _Homecoming_.  
  


The Soldier does not know any home.

He does not know any place that the mere mention of which can make him feel warm and safe and happy. He knows only missions, and pain. He knows exactly how to snap a human neck with his metal hand. He knows how to lie on his stomach on a rooftop for three days, waiting for a target window.

When the Soldier sees the man on the bridge, he feels a jolt through his skull like the electromagnetic waves Hydra uses to wipe him. It’s like that, but also not. It feels sharp and clear, and he gets pictures, little snatches of some other life, some other person he may or may not have been.

He sees a boy with blond hair, hears his painful coughing and smells the cheap soap he uses to get clean.

He sees flashes of that boy again, on the helicarrier. The boy is a man with the saddest eyes, now, and he drops his shield and falls to his knees.

The Soldier nearly destroys the man, but he can’t. In the end, he can’t. He lets the man fall down, down, into the river. He waits only a few seconds before diving after him.

  
He waits, on the riverbank, just long enough to see that the man with the sad eyes is breathing.

  
He can’t wait any longer than that.  
  


. . 

The house they live in isn’t small, isn’t large. It’s old, likely built around the time they were born, and it needs a lot of work. Bucky thinks this is fitting, because they need a lot of work, too.

There are a lot of rotted floorboards to pry up, a lot of old wallpaper to scrape away. Metaphorical ones, as such.

It takes awhile before they are sure that no one is coming for them, for the tension in their shoulders to ease, for the number of hours they sleep each night to go from two to four to six. Steve looks at Bucky like he’s his whole world, and Bucky still doesn’t understand.

He takes comfort in the fact, though, that all James Barnes’ memories featuring him and Steve together are shaded with this wondrous confusion, too. Bucky—the old Bucky, the current Bucky; Bucky in all his incarnations—has never quite been able to grasp what exactly it is that makes Steve Rogers look at him this way.

All he can do is be grateful.

  
They’ve been in the house—in Bar Harbor, Maine—for nearly five months, when Bucky shaves for the first time. It’s tricky, doing it one-handed, but he manages. He doesn’t slip. Using Steve’s old-fashioned straight razor, he carefully sloughs off the remnants of the hungry, feral thing he became. He rubs minty aftershave into his smooth skin and forces himself to look in the mirror.

It doesn’t make him feel sick like he’d thought it might; instead, it makes him feel a little less wild. A little more safe.

  
When he goes looking for Steve, Bucky relishes the feeling of the air on his cheeks, on his jaw. It’s cool, tingly from the minty cream, but in a nice way.

Bucky finds Steve on their screened back porch, sitting with one foot up on the coffee table and a sketchbook in his lap. He makes a little noise so Steve looks up, and the hassle of shaving a two-year-old beard one-handed is all suddenly worth it for the expression on Steve’s face.

He looks stricken—his lips part, and that pretty pink flush creeps over his cheekbones. He puts his sketchpad off to the side, and Bucky takes it as an invitation to sidle over and climb gingerly onto Steve’s lap.

The wicker sofa groans a little under their combined weight, but Bucky doesn’t care. He’s closing his eyes and leaning into Steve’s hands, which come up to cup his face. Steve strokes Bucky’s cheeks, his jaw. Then, he leans in and up to bring their mouths together in a searing kiss that tastes of the sweet black tea Steve’s been drinking.

“Welcome home, Buck,” Steve murmurs against his lips, sounding dreamy and lust-dumb.

Bucky wants to make some snarky comment regarding the fact that he’s _been_ here, thank you very much, but he’s too quickly lost in the slide of lips and tongues, of the gentle circles Steve’s thumbs are rubbing over his jaw. The two of them stay like that, necking like a couple of kids on the porch, for a long time.

When Bucky pulls back to suggest they take this inside, the words die in his throat because Jesus, Steve is beautiful. Those long, long lashes, those blue-blue eyes. The way his lips are swollen and bitten red from kissing, the way his hair is sticking up stupidly from where Bucky’s been running his hand through it.

 _“Vozvrashcheniye domoy,”_ Bucky mouths the words more than says them, remembering the way they sounded coming from the faceless, soulless handlers in Russia. Now, they feel like his heart is unfolding like a flower blooming in time-lapsed photos. They don’t mean what they used to mean—pain, blood, impossible wishes to be wiped from his mind time and time again—they mean what they are supposed to mean.  
  


And when Steve lays him back against the pillows, Bucky feels the weight of these words—or rather, the absence of their weight. The incredible, floating lightness.

  
He’s home. He’s with Steve, who was, who is, who will always _be_ Bucky’s home. They both made it out to the other side of the hell that lays behind them. He reaches up with his whole arm, and with what is left of his missing one, reaches up for Steve. Steve comes down to him, like he always has, and there is no more space between their two bodies for the next hour or two.

  
When they’re finished, lying sated atop the rumpled sheets as they so often do these days, Bucky traces the curve of Steve’s cheekbone with his fingertip. The window is cracked, letting in that delicious late-May air to cool the sweat drying on their bare skin.

Summer is just on the cusp, and the air will soon be humid and lazy, and Bucky won’t want to do anything besides taste the sweat of Steve’s neck and press cold glasses of iced tea to his cheek. Bucky has not spent a summer with Steve since before he shipped out to basic, and he is looking forward to it.

For now, the weather is temperate—light as a dream with days growing longer, everything like crisp linen and soft blue sky. The days have a fizz to them, Bucky thinks; like ginger ale, like tonic water. (One of the things Bucky has remembered about himself is that he loves tonic water—the odd bitterness of the quinine that makes his cheeks tingle, the way Steve makes him mixed drinks with it.) 75-80 degree days give way to balmy evenings and nights in the mid-60s, perfect for holding Steve’s hand and walking along the shore that’s practically their backyard.

Bucky likes to stand with his toes in the sand, planted there where the water can crash softly over his ankles, only to pull back again with the tide. Steve sometimes stands next to him, holding his hand and saying nothing. Other times, Steve brings a blanket and lies down, head pillowed on his arms, staring up at more stars than a couple of city boys like them had ever dreamed existed.  
  


Tonight is one of the blanket nights, and when Bucky’s had his fill of seawater rolling over the tops of his feet, he traipses back to where Steve’s lying and flops down beside him, feeling utterly content.

Sometimes, in these moments of peace, Bucky doesn’t know what to do with himself; he is learning. Now, he takes a few deep, slow breaths, inhaling the smell of ocean and night air and Steve’s soap-fresh body.

“D’you ever think about—about what would have happened if…?” Bucky lets the sentence trail off. It’s just as well; otherwise, he’d have been interrupted by one of Steve’s monumentally put-upon sighs.

Steve knows what it is that Bucky is trying to ask, knows that Bucky means _do you ever think about what would have happened if I’d killed you/if you’d killed me/if we never found each other again?_

Steve huffs and rolls over on his side to face Bucky, wearing that same expression of annoyed mixed with fond mixed with earnest that Steve probably perfected somewhere back in the third grade.

“Of course I have,” he says, a little sadly. “But someone a lot smarter than me told me that you can’t live your life wondering what could have gone wrong if you’re lucky enough for it to go right.”

Bucky can’t help snorting. “Sam tell you that?”

Steve’s eyes crinkle at the corners, his smile visible even in the semidarkness.

“Clint, actually,” he says, then slings an arm around Bucky’s waist to pull him closer. “Speaking of Barton, I talked to him earlier. They want to come for a weekend soon.”

And it certainly says something about how things are now, that Bucky’s chest doesn’t feel tight at the thought of guests. He feels himself smiling, too, at the idea of sitting out on the porch at night with Sam and Natasha and Clint, playing cards and talking shit.

It feels—it feels normal, in the best way.  
  


“Tell ‘em to bring that Scott guy,” Bucky says, wriggling a little so he’s pressed right up against Steve’s chest. “He’s fuckin’ hilarious.”

Bucky can feel Steve’s chest rumble with his laugh—the same stupid laugh he’s had since always.

“Isn’t he?” Steve agrees, still chuckling. “Yeah, I’ll tell ‘em. Weekend after next okay with you, Buck?”

“Oh, you know me and my loaded social calendar, Rogers,” Bucky drawls, deftly dodging the flick Steve aims at his earlobe. “Yeah, yeah. Just tell ‘em they have to bring their own booze.”

They lie there on the blanket on the beach awhile longer, kissing a little and calling each other names. Just when Bucky’s starting to feel sleep creeping in at the edges, Steve nudges him with one foot.

“C’mon, Buck,” he says gently, his voice like the softest, sweetest touch. “Let’s go home.”

Bucky lets Steve help him to his feet, and together they shake out the blanket and roll it up, walking back to their house with sandy toes and heavy eyelids.  
  


When Bucky’s curled up against Steve’s chest in their bed, he thinks about the word _home_ , and he feels warm.

  
. . .

  
Steve and Natasha have been banished from the kitchen while Sam, Bucky, and Clint prepare dinner.  
  


(Steve knows perfectly well that Natasha could cook if she wanted to; she doesn’t want to. He, on the other hand, is a menace even using the microwave to heat soup.)

So, the two of them take turns spraying sunblock onto each other’s exposed limbs before heading down in the direction of the beach.

  
There are dunes, with sand trails up at the top that can be hiked barefoot. It doesn’t take much effort for either of them to make it up one of the steeper ones, into the pleasant cool shade of the forest at the top.

The only sounds are birds calling to each other, and the rushing waves far below. It’s still and peaceful here, and Steve feels grateful for every day that he is allowed to know peace.

  
Gracefully wiping the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand, Natasha turns to shoot Steve a look which he knows means that questions are coming. He’s used to her particular brand of friendly interrogation, though, and he’s honestly kind of missed it in the time they’ve been apart.

“James is looking well,” she says carefully, unzipping her backpack and digging around until she can pull out a bottle of water. Unscrewing the cap, she almost smiles.

“He is, isn’t he?” Steve can’t help the fondness that creeps into his voice, dangerously close to becoming sappy.

Natasha takes a swig of water, then offers the bottle to Steve. He accepts, and the water is still fridge-cold running down his throat, dribbling down his chin a bit.

“How about you, Steve?” Natasha asks, replacing the cap once Steve’s handed her back the bottle. “How are you doing?”

He knows that curl of tease in her voice, at the edges of her mouth; knows that sly glint in her eyes. Still, he lets the dopey grin spread across his face when he answers.

“I’m—I’m doing good, Nat. Really, really good.”

“I didn’t want to be the one to say it, but,” she smiles prettily, a flash of white teeth, “You look like you’ve been getting some on the regular. You have that glow.”

Steve feels himself go red, but he doesn’t much care. He decides in that moment, fuck it. He’s not Captain America anymore; he doesn’t have to worry about holding his tongue or dialing back his sass.

“Oh, it’s a lot more than some,” he tells her, and he is rewarded with her scandalized and delighted squawk, with the friendly punch she aims at his bicep.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, grinning more broadly than Steve can ever recall seeing. “It’s like I’m getting a glimpse of the real you for the first time.”

Steve ducks his head, laughs a little. It’s true; he feels more like himself than he has in decades. Since he stepped into that Vita-ray machine of Stark’s. Howard. Thoughts of Howard inevitably lead to thoughts of Tony, which make Steve frown and withdraw. He…he’s sorry, for the way things ended between them. He doesn’t regret leaving, but he regrets leaving a bad taste in everyone’s mouths.

Which is why, here and now, he sucks it up and doesn’t bother to hide the concern in his voice.

“How…how is Tony, Natasha?” he asks, feeling guilty just for saying the man’s name.

Natasha gives Steve an unreadable look, then tugs him by the arm down the leftmost path of the trail. The sand is cool between Steve’s toes, and the edges of the trail are dotted with wildflowers; columbine, wild lupine, purple asters. He wants to stop and look at them closely, to sketch them in a book and bring them home to fill in with color.

“He’s…” Natasha says finally, thinking about it, “He’s trying. Trying to rebuild his life, I suppose. He’d kill me for telling you this, but, he’s sorry.”

Steve is slightly stricken by the idea that Tony Stark could possibly be admitting any fault at all. He immediately feels bad for doubting Tony’s heart, though; though they rarely see eye to eye on many things, Steve knows how Tony’s guilt eats at him.

“I’m sorry too, for what it’s worth,” Steve offers, feeling awkward and too big for his skin. “I’m not sorry about leaving,” he adds, maybe a touch defensive. “I was being selfish, a little bit. I see that, but…” he shrugs, frustrated that he can’t find the words.

“But,” Natasha finishes for him, “You’re always selfish when it comes to you-know-who.”

Steve lets out a shaky exhale, half-laughing.

“I— _yeah_ ,” he agrees. “You know, I really am.”

“I tried to explain it to Tony, but,” Natasha rolls her eyes, and for a second, Steve is reminded of Bucky. “You know how he can be purposely obtuse.”

Steve barks out a laugh at that, genuine and startling in this quiet forest.

“I miss him, Nat,” Steve says, realizing just how true the words are as he says them. “It’s weird. I didn’t think I would.”

“Look, Steve,” Natasha says abruptly, a new sort of hurry in her voice, “There’s something you should know.”

  
Steve’s heard this sentence before, in all its variations. He knows that what usually follows is something he’ll wish he hadn’t heard, hadn’t found out.

  
Still, he braces himself, staring straight ahead, making himself focus on the patches of sunlight poking through the dense treetops.

  
“Tell me,” he says, meaning it.

  
“They—SHIELD—found footage. Video logs in one of Hydra’s databases,” Natasha tells him, voice carefully neutral.

And Steve knows, he knows that it’s about Bucky. He isn’t going to want to hear this, but he makes himself say, “Nat, just tell me.”

“There were hundreds of hours worth of tapes, Steve,” Natasha continues, sounding just the tiniest bit shaken. “Tony—he tried to watch one, and he threw up.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say, which emotion to let win the brawl currently taking place in his brain. He’s angry—he’s fucking _pissed_ ; he hates that there’s evidence lying around, that there’s documentation of every sick thing Steve could not prevent them from doing to Bucky. There’s pain there, too, always. Sharp, stinging pain, like a dirty knife shoved haphazardly into a fresh wound.

When he no longer feels like punching a tree until his knuckles bleed, Steve breathes out through his nose, closes his eyes for a second. He opens them, only to find that Natasha is standing in front of him, now. Blocking his way, and peering up at him with those odd color-shifting eyes of hers.

“Go ahead,” she says, light and gentle. “Ask.”

Steve swallows, a fruitless attempt at easing the tightness in his throat.

“What did you…?”

“Stark destroyed them, all of them.” Natasha raises an eyebrow, a hard steel behind her expression. “But not before he’d run recognition software on them. He wanted to make this, so I could give it to you.”

And before Steve can even think to protest, he’s being handed a medium-thick manila folder that Natasha has magicked from somewhere in her backpack.

“All the ones who are still alive and free are in there,” she says. “He thought you might—well.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t want these names, doesn’t want to put identities to the many cruel instruments used on Bucky when he was the Soldier. He doesn’t want to go looking for trouble, even for vengeance. He doesn’t think Bucky does, either. He swallows thickly, then nods.

“I—thanks, but, I can’t”—the words are hard to find, and Steve stumbles over them—“I can’t let myself get angry about those things anymore. I’m dangerous when I get like that.”

Natasha looks at him, saying nothing.

“I’ll show it to Bucky, see if he…” if he what? If he wants to go on a revenge killing spree some weekend when they’re bored? Steve doesn’t know, but he figures that he owes Bucky the choice, at least. “Tell Tony, tell him thanks.”

Natasha’s lips quirk up in the ghost of a smile, then she takes Steve by the arm once more.

“C’mon, big guy,” she drawls. “Let’s head back. Dinner is probably done by now.”

Steve follows her, still clutching the folder in his hand, wondering if it’s wrong to want to ask Natasha if she and the other Avengers could just take care of the people in it. If they could do it off the books, like whispers in the dark.

  
Bucky, later in the quiet of their bedroom, takes the folder and tucks it away into a desk drawer. He tells Steve that they'll keep it, just in case, but they'll only do anything about it together.   
  
Steve decides he can live with that.   
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's one more chapter, which I'm still polishing up a bit. Hopefully, this all makes some sort of sense. 
> 
> Leave me some love! <3


	3. Chapter 3

9.  
  
_One. odin_  
  


There’s a knock on the front door one sticky-hot afternoon in June, and Steve disentangles himself from Bucky with a huff, pulling a pair of basketball shorts up over his bare behind.  
  


He pads down the hallway and down the stairs, feet catching slightly on the wood with the humidity, expecting to see some Jehovah’s Witness or traveling salesman when he peers through the peephole.

He is not, in any way, shape, or form, prepared for who he sees instead, standing on the front porch with a large box tucked awkwardly under one arm, looking like he’d rather just flee and pretend he’d never come here.  
  


“Tony,” Steve says as he opens the door, hoping that he doesn’t sound as surprised as he feels. As blindsided. As scared.

Tony shuffles his feet a little, shrugs minutely. He isn’t—as is his usual custom—wearing sunglasses, a fact which leaves Steve nonplussed.

“So,” Tony begins, and Steve is thinking here we go, because he’s been ready since the second he saw Stark here for that fast-talking breathless monologue to start, and it looks like it’s starting, right on time. “I hated you for awhile.”

Steve sighs, fights the urge to glance back over his shoulder, towards the staircase. He hopes that Bucky is still in bed, listening to the whir of their many fans in harmony with the dreamy jazz on the stereo.

“Look, Tony—” Steve starts, but Stark holds up a hand.

“—I hated you for like, two, maybe three days tops,” Tony continues, eyes darting a little, the way they do when he’s uncomfortable. “And…Barnes. I saw what they, well. You know, uh, did. To him. It was fucking awful, Steve.”

Steve doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods.

“So, I, uh, brought you something. Well, it’s for Barnes more than you, but hey, I don’t know what you two might get up to out here…”

“Tony,” Steve says, exhaling it like a breath.

And it is the right thing to do, in this moment, to pull Tony Stark in for a rough hug, right here on the porch of the fixer-upper in Bar Harbor. Tony is stiff for half a second before going boneless, then bringing his free arm up to return Steve’s embrace.

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, squeezing a little. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too, buddy,” Stark says, though it’s muffled a little because his head barely comes up to the middle of Steve’s chest.

When they let go, neither man’s eyes are as dry as he’d like them to be, but Steve figures that he’s done enough holding back for one lifetime. Hell, probably even two.

“Yeah, so,” Stark rocks forward and back on the balls of his feet, fidgety as always. “The thing is pretty straightforward, easy-installation for you two fossils, but I threw an instruction manual in just in case.”

He thrusts the large box into Steve’s arms, surprisingly light for such a sturdy looking case.

“Do you want to come in?” Steve asks, remembering suddenly the manners he is vaguely aware that he used to have.

Stark shakes his head, a sharp, singular jerk of neck, jamming his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

“Not…not today. But soon, maybe?” he looks hopeful, and standoffish, and scared, and also still like he’s trying to look like he doesn’t give a shit about any of it. Steve knows better by now.

“Anytime, Tony,” he says warmly, meaning it. “Seriously.”

Tony nods, and gives a smile that’s shaky but real.

“I’ll bring Pepper next time,” he says, and Steve feels himself smile, wide and true. “And Wanda.”

“I—we’d like that, Tony.”

And then, without any goodbyes, Tony Stark hustles back down the porch steps and across the gravel drive to where his ostentatious ride is parked, leaving Steve standing in the doorway holding a sleek box with contents still unknown.

Steve carries it up the stairs and into the bedroom, still smiling.

  
. .  
  


“He just drove all the way up here? To give you a present for me?” Bucky asks skeptically, glaring at the box where it sits on the edge of the bed.

He’s more than a little suspicious; there could be any number of horrible things in that box.

“We made up, Buck,” Steve is smiling, face shining like a goddamn sunbeam, and Bucky doesn’t have it in him to even suggest that it could have all been part of some elaborate revenge plan.

“Alright,” he relents, reaching for the package. He can’t resist adding, “But if we blow up, I want it on record that it’s your fault for being the most trusting asshole on earth.”

“Fine by me.”

Bucky tentatively lifts the lid, half-wincing for fear of the unknown, but when it’s fulling removed, he feels his face go slack. Hears the little sharp intake of his own breath and Steve’s.

There, resting in a perfect mold of black foam, is an arm.

Not just any arm; this arm is clearly a perfect fit for Bucky’s missing left, made of some kind of bright, pale metal that weighs next to nothing when Bucky picks the thing up carefully.

There isn’t any insignia on the bicep, no symbol of anyone’s ideology, no memento of bad times in worse places. There is an aesthetically pleasing black booklet in the box as well, with clear, simple instructions for how to install the arm here at home.

Without any doctors, or scientists, or any other men with white coats and moral grey areas the size of the Grand Canyon.

Bucky’s throat feels tight, and he swallows several times before he is sure he can trust his voice.  
  


“I don’t deserve this, Steve.” he rasps, laying the arm back into its place in the box. “It’s too much. It’s too much.”

  
“It’s not too much,” Steve says firmly. “And Tony’s never been one to do anything by halves. Whether you wear it or not is up to you, Buck, it’s your choice. But it’s Tony’s choice to forgive you.”

Bucky nods, lump growing in his throat again, prickly tears stinging his eyes.

“I think,” he says thickly, “I need to be alone for a little while, Steve.”

Steve flinches, but it is a tiny thing—almost invisible even to Bucky, who knows all of Steve’s tells. Quickly, the hurt fades into his normal earnest expression, and he leans in to give Bucky a kiss on the cheek, just a quick brush of lips on skin, barely more than a whisper.

Then, Steve is gone.  
  


He always does what Bucky asks of him; it is one of the many things about him that is so perplexing.

Bucky replaces the lid on the box, and carefully moves the box to the floor next to the bed. Then, he climbs into bed, under the thin summer quilt, and curls in on himself.  
  


He cries until he has nothing left.  
  


Then, still a bit bleary-eyed, he reaches for the box, and the instruction manual. Turning it to page 1, he sees a yellow square of note stuck inside. It reads, in small, neat uniform letters, _I know it wasn’t you. Think of this as a peace offering. —T_

Bucky plucks the note from the page gingerly, folding it into quarters before placing it safely in the top drawer of the nightstand.  
  


He takes a breath, then starts to read step one.

 

The look on Steve’s face when Bucky comes downstairs with his new arm attached and running is worth every single awful thing Bucky’s ever done.

. .  
  


It’s July 4th, and Steve is motoring around the house trying to do some last-minute tidying before their guests arrive.  
  


The Fourth of July is a special day, and Bucky doesn’t need any help remembering why.

  
He does, however, need a few minutes alone in the bathroom to take deep breaths, to calm himself. He knows that he has been forgiven for what Hydra made him do, knows that the arm he’s staring down at right now was tailor-made for him by the man whose parents Bucky killed. He knows these things, but still, he needs a few minutes to tell himself that it’s all okay; they won’t take him away from Steve, or Steve away from him. There is nothing immediate to fear.

“Hey, Buck, hurry up in there,” Steve’s voice comes muffled through the door, accompanied by a short knock. “I need to shower. M’all sweaty.”

Bucky lets out one last slow, long exhale, then reaches to twist the lock on the doorknob.

“Come in,” he says, and he has every intention to clear out and let Steve take his shower. Really, he does.  
  


But then he sees Steve, hair mussed and sticking up, face flushed from frantic vacuuming and sweeping, and Bucky just _wants_.

He reaches for Steve, and Steve comes willingly, like he always does. That Steve matches Bucky’s eagerness, his hunger every single time, still sends a thrill down to the pit of Bucky’s stomach.

Their mouths fit together, all hot sliding lips and tongues, bumping teeth and sharp nips, and Bucky feels a stab of pride when Steve whimpers against his mouth, dick hard and pressing insistently up against Bucky’s thigh.

“Thought you needed to shower,” Bucky smirks against Steve’s mouth, pulling him by the waist so he can grind his own cock against Steve’s through their pants.

Steve just whines and walks them backwards, reaching blindly with one arm until he finds the shower tap and turns it on. The bathroom fills up with steam, and Bucky hastily shucks his clothes while Steve does the same.

“Want you so goddamn much,” Steve hisses, coming back in for a kiss that leaves Bucky breathless and burning up.

He thinks he will never get tired of that sleepy-lidded look on Steve, when Steve’s eyes are dark with lust, and his lips are bitten red. They maneuver into the shower, large enough for both of them with a little room to spare, and Bucky presses Steve up against the cool tiles, moving his hips to get some friction.

“How much time we got?” Bucky asks, nosing at the skin just below Steve’s jaw. He presses his lips to the spot, testing with his teeth before sucking a mark there.

Steve moans, and it echoes off the tile walls, the sound going straight to Bucky’s already aching dick.

“ _Fuck_ —Sam said they were about two hours—oh my _god_ , Buck—two hours out. We got time.”

Two hours? Bucky can work with that.

He sinks to his knees and takes Steve’s beautiful cock into his mouth, loving the velvety softness and lapping at the salt-sweat taste with his tongue. Bucky has always loved this, using his mouth on Steve. He remembers loving it before, and the first time he’d done it in the future, here, it had all come rushing back.

Steve makes the prettiest sounds, always has; little gasps and grunts and moans, cursing under his breath and begging so good. When Steve starts to lose coherence, when his words start to slur and blend together, that’s how Bucky knows he’s close. He works Steve’s shaft with his hand, still sucking wetly at the tip, until he feels Steve tense up and go diamond-hard in his mouth, til he tastes the salty-warm release on his tongue.

Bucky swallows it all, licking his lips for any traces left behind. When he looks up at Steve, he can’t help but grin; Bucky doesn’t think there’s anything more gorgeous than Steve Rogers all fucked out.

“Get up here,” Steve rasps, and Bucky does, falling into Steve’s waiting arms and being kissed just as heatedly as five minutes ago.

He feels Steve’s hand wrap around his dick, and his eyes flutter shut at the sensation. The water pounds down on them, and Bucky rides the waves of pleasure until he’s grunting and thrusting his hips and spilling his own sticky mess all over Steve’s hand.  
  


They wash each other off wordlessly, taking turns standing under the spray, rinsing the soap and shampoo. Bucky feels lazy and floaty and good, the way he always does after they do this. He thinks absently that this was a smart idea, that it can’t hurt to be relaxed for when the guests come.

“You gonna let me eat you out later?” Bucky drawls when they’re stepping out of the shower, reaching for a towel to wrap around his hips.

“Like it’s some big pain,” Steve grins, rubbing a towel over his hair. “I dunno, we’ll see.”

Bucky knows that means yes.  
  


He hums to himself, smiling, while he shaves in the mirror and gets dressed.  
  


. .

  
“I brought pie,” sings Sam when Steve opens the door. "It's key lime, and I made it from scratch, so you best be grateful."

  
Behind him, Natasha, Clint, Wanda, Scott, Sharon, Tony, and Pepper all file in.

“Oh, this is such a lovely home you have, Steve,” Pepper says genuinely, laying a hand on Steve’s arm. “Are those the original crown moldings?”

“ _Ugh_ , save the HGTV jargon for later,” Tony groans. “Like, four beers later. Or maybe never.”

“Good to see you too, Tony,” Steve grins.

“Where’s James?” Natasha asks, stretching up onto her tiptoes to peck Steve on the cheek.

“ _James_ is in the kitchen, slaving away like a regular Mrs. Steve Rogers,” drawls Bucky from the doorway to said kitchen, leaning against the frame and looking for all the world like his old rakish self.

“Buck, you know Clint, and Nat, and Sharon, and Sam,” Steve says. “This is Scott—wait, no, you remember—yeah, and Pepper Potts, and, um, Tony.”  
  
Pepper smiles warmly and shakes Bucky’s hand, and Scott behaves at least ten times less hysterically awkward as he did when he first met Steve.

For a long stretch of seconds, Bucky and Tony stare blankly at each other, and Steve is suddenly wondering if this wasn’t the worst idea he’s ever had, but then, Tony extends his hand and cocks his head in a silent gesture of _‘I’m good with it if you are,’_ and Bucky shakes it and offers a small smile.

“How’s the arm working out for you?” Tony asks, nodding at said arm. “Looks good. Then again, I built it, so. Of course it does.”

“It’s great,” Bucky tells him honestly. “I see why everyone says you’re a genius.”

Tony brightens considerably after that, and Steve silently offers up a prayer of thanks to whomever may be up there, for letting him somehow have both his friends and Bucky here in this life.  
  


Steve and Bucky offer to carry everyone’s bags to their respective guest rooms, while they all unpack the food they’ve brought. Everyone hustles into the kitchen to unload things into the fridge, then they head out to the screened back porch to lounge in the wicker furniture and drink beer from sweating glass bottles while they complain happily about the heat.  
  


“So, retirement looks like it’s treating you well,” Tony says with an arched brow.

“Retirement, my ass,” Bucky snorts dryly. “The one treating him well is _me_. Spoiled him fuckin’ rotten, and it’s my own damn fault.”

Natasha guffaws into her beer, and Sam chokes on a sip of his.

“How come you don’t say ‘language’ when Barnes swears, Rogers?” Tony asks, eyes flashing like he’s already enjoying this way too much.

Bucky looks confused for a second, and he catches Steve’s eye for an explanation. Steve goes red, scratching the back of his neck and looking away.

“Don’t tell me this punk ever got on anyone’s back about cursing,” Bucky says, leaning back against the cushions. “Dirtier mouth than a Jersey sidewalk, this one.”

“Says the one who taught ‘em all to me,” Steve fires back, earning himself a flick in the ear.  
  
"Oh, you  _wish_ that's how it was, Rogers. Like you weren't a full-fledged sinner all on your own." 

Everyone is looking at them with amusement and fondness in varying degrees, and Steve doesn’t think he could get much happier. Sharon catches Steve’s eye and smiles, raising her eyebrows. Steve shrugs, rolls his eyes. He nods to where Sam’s fingers are tangled with Sharon’s between them on the wicker sofa, and she just grins wider.

“You guys ever get like, local teenagers trying to vandalize your property?” Clint asks, opening his second beer. “Do you chase ‘em away like grumpy old men?”

“Nah,” Bucky waves a hand, taking a swig of beer. “I just blast ‘em with the repulsor Stark put in this thing.” he gestures to his left arm.

There’s a beat, then he throws his head back and laughs.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Tony gasps, eyes wide. “You didn’t tell us he was funny, Rogers. I can’t believe you’re hiding him all the way out here in the boonies. Shit.”

“ _Jesus_ , you people.” Bucky shakes his head. “Are you sure you’ve met Steve Rogers?”  
  


When someone pulls out a deck of cards, what can only be described as a rowdy melee of rummy ensues, and Steve shows his friends a little more Brooklyn than he has before.  
  


(He maintains that he is no longer Captain America, so he is allowed to cheat at cards all he wants.)

  
.  
  


They all eat massive quantities of barbecue, fried potatoes, and some kind of pasta with a sauce Wanda made from scratch, but refuses to give anyone the recipe for.

When they’re all stuffed, slumped over on the patio furniture, there are fireworks starting up in the town a few miles away. From the back porch, they have a perfect view of them, and it’s nice, just sitting quietly, everyone watching the sky contentedly.

Steve shivers happily when he feels Bucky’s arm stretch and come to rest around his shoulders, and Natasha catches his eye from the love-seat where she’s got her feet in Clint’s lap.

  
“So, are we gonna give Steve his birthday present now?” Tony says, though he’s already reaching for two large envelopes that are poking out of Pepper’s purse.

She slaps his hand, but lets him take them, smiling more with her eyes than with her mouth.

“Here ya go, Cap—er, I guess Not-Cap. That’s gonna take some getting used to. These are from all of us.”

  
One envelope is addressed to Captain Steven G. Rogers, the other to Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, and both are thick and very official looking.

Steve hands Bucky the one with his name on it, already feeling like whatever’s inside is going to make him do something embarrassing, like cry.  
  


“I may not remember everything, but I’m pretty sure it ain’t my birthday, too,” Bucky cracks, but he’s undoing the little metal brad that’s holding the envelope closed.

  
Steve does the same, and the sheet of paper he slides carefully out is signed and sealed by the President.

His eyes scan the words, translating all the official jargon in his head, and realizing with a choking sound that this is what amounts to a full, government-issued pardon. In other words, Steve is legally off the hook.

When he looks at Bucky, he does feel tears stinging his eyes, because Bucky is sitting there with the letter in his hands, the corners of his mouth turned down like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“Happy birthday, Steve,” Sharon says, her dark eyes bright in the dim light of the citronella candles on the table. “You’re free.”

And it hits him then, hard.

  
They’re _free_.  
  


They can go anywhere, do anything, without the threat of it all being taken away. Steve swallows, shaking his head.

“How did you…”

“Relax, old man. Wouldn’t want to get you all riled up, man of your age,” Tony says. “We—we all pulled whichever strings we were able. It was nothing.”

It’s the exact opposite of nothing, and Steve feels drunk with it.

“I can’t—this is…”

“Thank you,” Bucky says, because he’s always been there to help Steve when he’s struggling. “You can’t know what it means to me that Steve’s had you all watching his six while I couldn’t.”  
  


And that’s all that needs to be said, really. Everyone’s eyes are a little shiny, but nobody mentions it. They watch the fireworks show until it ends, the finale flashing brighter and more dazzling than all the fireworks that came before it, and then they traipse off to their respective rooms for the night.

  
In bed, Steve and Bucky fuck like it’s the first time ever.  
  


In a way, it kind of is; they’re born again. This time, they get to choose how it goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter will be the roughest, the one that features the trigger, Freight Car. 
> 
> Should be done sometime tomorrow or monday. In the meantime, enjoy this one. Fluffy and sappy and angsty all rolled into one. 
> 
> <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Road trips, flashbacks, and an impromptu wedding.

10.

_Freight Car. Gruzovoy avtomobil’_   
  


Icy wind whipped through the open door, the train speeding through the Alps.

Steve reached for Bucky, but the twisted metal onto which Bucky clung groaned and gave out, and the swirling snow and ice sucked him down faster than a whirlpool.

It happened so fast, in the blink of an eye. Steve had never known just how quickly you could lose everything, until it had happened to him. 

  
It left him more than shaken; it left him destroyed.   
  
. . .  
  


“Remind me again why I have to drive?” Bucky drawls, eyes never leaving the road.  
  


They’re crossing the border into Ohio, having had an early start before the sun even poked its head above the horizon.

“Because,” Steve reminds him, never looking up from the book he’s been reading for the last hour. “We flipped a coin, and you lost. I’m driving tomorrow.”

Bucky mutters something under his breath about _‘rigged,’_ and possibly also something about _‘dirty cheating little shits,’_ but Steve can’t be sure.

Even so, he grins down at the page he’s reading.

  
They’re driving across the country, to see all the things they fought to save. To be tourists, with cameras and stupid t-shirts and the whole shebang.

Steve buys a tiny license plate keychain in every state they pass through.

  
. .  
  


“When did you wanna stop for the night?” Bucky asks when they cross into Indiana.  
  


It’s dark, and the last time they stopped for food was a good five hours back, and Steve’s neck and knees are protesting from being cramped in the car they rented for the trip.

“Next motel,” Steve says, shifting unhappily in his seat. “But they’ve gotta have at least three of their neon sign’s letters in working order.”

They pull into the gravel lot for a place called Loretta’s Rise’n’Shine Inn, where the sign has not three but five of its letters lit up against the backdrop of night sky, and the doors of each room are painted in various candy colors.  
  


They get a room from a girl with frizzy dark hair and a bored expression, trudging down the rows of numbered suites until they reach theirs.

The door is bright canary yellow, and Bucky makes a face at it, as though it has personally offended him.

The decor inside the room isn’t much better; Steve’s pretty sure they were going for kitsch, and boy, did they nail it.

The lamp is a curvaceous hula girl, rosy-cheeked and coquettish, and the light switch covers are all shaped like pineapples. There’s a weird sort of tiki theme going on, which Steve decides must be why the door is yellow. Or something.

But, it’s clean, and it’s theirs for the night. The shower works, and the bed linens are free of any questionable odors or stains. The television offers cable.

He lets Bucky have the shower first, flipping through channels until he lands on some reality show about people who like to eat strange things.  
  


He’s halfway through an episode in which a woman carries a baby doll around with her everywhere she goes, when Bucky comes out, hair still dripping and towel slung low around his hips.

“Whatcha watching?” he asks, eyeing the tv with a bemused look.

“Honestly?” Steve shakes his head. “I’m gonna go shower. Maybe when I get back, you can tell me what this is supposed to be. I’m lost.”

  
When he returns, Bucky’s on his stomach with a pillow under his elbows, face bathed in the blow glow of the tv. He’s slightly gaping.

“Steve, this is—this is _bizarre_ ,” he breathes, not looking away. “This woman _sucks_ the _pee_ out of diapers.”

“Oh my god,” Steve cringes. “That’s vile. Move over,” he shoves at Bucky a little, so as to make some room.

They watch four more episodes, faces twisted in horror, and wonder aloud why anyone on earth would ever want to drink nail polish.  
  


Sleep comes, like rising tide.

  
. .  
  


Bucky’s had about as much flat prairie as he can stomach.

  
They’re still in Illinois, somehow, like the state just keeps going on forever. He thought Indiana had been bad, but Illinois is a nightmare.

Sure, Chicago was fun. Bucky gets all the fuss about Chicago, maybe. They have good food, thick skins. The crime rates are high, though, and police brutality is so commonplace, it makes Bucky feel ill to think about it.

Now, though, it’s just cornfields and plains and forests, in that order, then repeat. They stop at gas stations and scenic overlooks, where Steve watches the scenery and Bucky watches him.

When they’re finally, finally getting close to the border, Steve turns his head a little and asks “Iowa, or Missouri?”

Bucky grunts.

“What’s the difference?”

Steve snorts. “Between you and me, pal, I’m not really sure. Just pick one.”

Bucky thinks about it, squinting at the map he’s currently got unfolded on his lap in the passenger’s side seat.  
  


“Guess it’ll have to be Missouri,” he sighs. “Iowa’ll just be cornfields aplenty all over again.”

  
. .  
  


It doesn’t take long, driving through Missouri and Kansas, and for that, Bucky is grateful.

They stop at some roadside museums, and Steve buys more pointless junk pretending to be souvenirs. Bucky pretends not to like it.

He wonders if other people would think that it’s weird, his spending so much time with Steve and never getting sick of him. He knows he could spend an eternity with Steve. He’d never complain. He promptly remembers that he doesn’t exactly give a shit what other people think, hypothetically or otherwise.

They check in periodically with their friends—and it’s strange, thinking of these people as Bucky’s friends, too—sending pictures and texts and calling on some newfangled video chat. Sam asks if they’re going to buy any pot in Colorado, and Bucky laughs so hard, he’s glad he’s not the one driving today.

(Sam nearly hyperventilates when Steve says “Yeah, what kind would you recommend?” with a completely straight face.)

. .  
  


Somewhere in Wyoming, they get caught at a freight train, and Bucky sees Steve’s whole body tense.  
  


The wheels of the train chug along with the same old noise they did back in 1944, and the cars seem to go on, one after the other, forever.

Bucky’s long since made his peace with trains; he’s done a lot worse than fall from one, seen a lot scarier things than an open train car door.    
He can see, though, just from the taut line of Steve’s shoulder, the way he’s frowning in profile, that Steve has yet to make his peace with trains.

“It’s okay, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, metal fingers coming to rest on top of Steve’s hand where it clenches the steering wheel.

“I hate trains,” Steve spits, the words coming out bitter as lemon rind.

He looks so young right now, Bucky thinks, his blond hair glinting in the bright sun, teeth gritted like there’s some bully that's backed him into a corner, angling for a fight.

“Well, lucky for you, we don’t ever have to step foot on one again,” Bucky says, voice lighter than he feels.

A few more cars go by, bright with graffiti that Bucky can’t read.

“Promise?” Steve asks, trying and mostly managing to smile.

Bucky looks at him for a long moment, and the last car rumbles off somewhere to the east of them.

“Cross my heart,” he says.

  
When the gates go up, Steve doesn’t floor it, but it’s a near thing.  
  


. .

  
They stop at another weird motel, this one bearing an old west theme to the decor. They buy two nights, because there are some things Steve wants to sketch and some stagecoach robber museum that Bucky wants to visit, and the man behind the front desk doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the two of them.

There have been a few people—more than a few, if Bucky’s being honest—who’ve recognized Steve on this trip, but they’ve all kept their mouths blessedly shut. By now, the media’s already dissected everything about Steve’s ‘disappearance,’ Bucky’s shocking government pardon, and their supposedly illicit affair during their years in the army.

It’s old news, and no one much cares. They’ve got Sam wearing the suit and holding the shield, and they seem just fine with that.

(There were obviously those who wanted Steve stripped of all honors, just on the principal that he isn’t straight. Those people are the sort who talk at you instead of to you, and get most of their ideas from small town churches. No one with any sort of brain listens to those people.)

“I got an email about some television interview,” Steve snorts, lying on one of the beds in their motel room, scrolling through his inbox. “They want to interview me about my new life. Ha.”

Bucky drains the rest of his beer, reaching for the six pack to grab another. Steve makes a little whiny noise, which Bucky knows means that he wants a beer, too. He grabs another and hands it to Steve.

“Can’t they just leave you alone? I mean, do they really wanna hear about all the screwing we’ve been getting up to?” he asks, flopping down on the mattress so they’re right next to each other.

Steve cackles, then puts his phone on the nightstand. He takes a swig of beer, making a pained face.

“God, I wish I could still get a buzz,” he sighs. “D’you think I’ll be able to get high?”

Bucky nearly chokes, laughing at the wrong moment so IPA gets up his nose.

“Shit,” he coughs, still laughing as Steve pats his back. “You were serious about that?”

“Well, why not?” Steve frowns, sitting up a little. “I’m just a regular guy, now. And it’s legal in Colorado. Plus, I’ve had to watch all my friends be able to get tipsy without me for like, four years.”

Bucky hates to admit it, but Steve looks adorable when he’s pouting. Even as the adult man he’s become, it’s fucking adorable as all hell.

“Alright, babydoll, wipe that frown off your pretty face,” Bucky drawls, setting aside his bottle and reaching for Steve. “We’ll get us some of the good stuff, soon as we get to Denver.”

Steve looks pleased, and when Bucky goes to kiss him, it’s languid and hot and perfect.

They don’t sleep much, that first night in Wyoming.

  
Neither one of them really minds.  
  


. .  
  


Echo Park is breathtaking.

All those cliffs of layered rock, all that bright blue sky dotted with picture-perfect white fluffy clouds; Steve could stand in one spot, just watching, for hours.

The two of them hike a few trails, stopping to guzzle water from bottles in their backpacks, and to take pictures to send to their friends.

Bucky looks like something out of a movie, skin going bronze from all that unfiltered sun, light glinting off his left arm. His hair is tied back, and he’s wearing a tank-top they bought at a rest stop that says KANSAS CITY, and below it, WHERE THE HELL IS THAT?

Steve burns in the sun, which he finds wildly amusing, seeing as it’s the only thing the serum didn’t manage to fix about him. He giggles when Bucky rubs sunblock into his shoulders and neck, imagining the picture they must make.

The air is hot and clean, here, dry and dusty and utterly different from what two city boys are used to. Natasha asks them to send her a selfie, so they find a good spot and do just that. In the gift shop at the Dinosaur Monument, they buy her a tacky t-shirt.

  
When they return to their motel for the night, they compare tan lines and rub lotion into each other’s hot skin.  
  


(Steve’s nearly burnt to a crisp, and Bucky stays up half the night pressing a towel damp with ice cold water on his back and shoulders, muttering about stupid people who take their shirts off at high noon.)

  
. .  
  


New Mexico is—well, it’s got a vibe.

  
That’s a word from the future, ‘vibe.’ Bucky’s picking up a lot of new words lately.

They check out a store that has cow skulls and bone wind chimes hanging from the awning out front, and find that it’s run by two leather-skinned, turquoise-bedecked women with strong hands and braids streaked through with steel-grey.

They introduce themselves as Sam and Darla, telling Steve and Bucky that they’ve been partners for twenty-five years, as long as they’ve had this shop. Bucky likes the way Darla’s voice sounds like woodsmoke and purple, and he lets her lead him around the store, lets her tell him all about each crystal and mineral and incense.

Steve is busy talking to Sam about the watercolors she’s selling, hung up on the walls in frames, of landscapes and portraits and sunsets over the desert. Bucky can see the way Steve is gesturing excitedly with his hands, and it makes him smile to himself.

“You two been together long?” Darla asks, setting down the chunk of amethyst she’d been showing him.

Bucky laughs, startled by the question.

“Yeah,” he tells her, shaking his head. “Since we were kids. Would you believe that lug used to be a hundred pounds soaking wet, barely as tall as my chin?”   
Darla looks across the room to Steve, assessing.

“I believe it,” she says, tipping her head to one side a little. “He stands like he’s not used to being the size of a mountain.”

Bucky doesn’t realize how he’s never noticed it ’til now, but he sees the way Steve hunches his shoulders slightly, how he slouches just a tiny bit.

“It’s funny,” he tells Darla, shuffling through the tester pack of power animal cards, “When he was small, he acted like he was eight feet tall.”

She smiles and says nothing, just guides him over to another section of shelves, placing various stones into his upturned palm and explaining what each one is for.

“Have you ever tried yoga?” she asks, and Bucky shakes his head no.  
  


They exchange warm, pleasant goodbyes with Darla and Sam, each carrying paper bags full of things they never intended to buy, and step back out into the arid New Mexico heat.

  
In the car, while they wait for the air conditioning to crank up, Steve pulls something out of his bag and tosses it so it lands in Bucky’s lap.

“Hey,” Bucky complains, glaring a little, but he picks the thing up anyway. It’s an unopened box of cards, like the ones he’d been playing around with in the shop.

“You liked ‘em,” Steve offers by way of explanation. “I know you did. Pick a card for me,” he adds, putting the car in gear. “C’mon, I want to know what animal to embody for the rest of the day.”

Bucky grumbles a little, but he tears through the plastic wrap and happily shuffles the cards, big and glossy in his hands, until one falls out, face-up.

“Kangaroo,” Bucky reads aloud. “‘Gratitude. Be grateful for all you are blessed with.’ Yeah, Steve, be glad you found the one chump who’ll put up with you for a lifetime.”

Steve just smiles, all soft and fond, and adjusts the rearview mirror a little.

“Already know how lucky I am,” he says. “Definitely feeling grateful today.”  
  


.  
  


When they get to their motel for the night, Steve insists that Bucky draw a card for himself, too. Bucky rolls his eyes and does so, but he can’t do anything other than stare down at the card in his hands for several long minutes.

“Lemme see,” Steve makes grabby hands, and Bucky passes him the card. “‘Porcupine,’” he reads. “‘Innocence. Free yourself of guilt and shame.’ Sounds pretty on the nose to me.”

Bucky feels strange, in a huge, vast-unknowable universe sort of way. He never even thought twice about putting any kind of stock into funny practices with cards or crystals or anything like that. Now, he feels like a puzzle piece has been snapped neatly into place.

“Darla said this happens a lot,” he says after another minute. “The cards always tell you what you need to hear, she said.”

Steve smiles, handing the card back so Bucky can reshuffle the deck.

“Pull two more,” he says. “To set the tone for the rest of the trip.”

Bucky snorts. “You seem awful relaxed about this all this new age stuff for a good ol’ Catholic boy.”

“Shut it,” Steve says automatically. “C’mon, just do it.”

Bucky does, and the two cards he lays flat on the mattress between them are Dolphin and Horse.

“‘Dolphin, playfulness. Take time to play,’” he grins, catching Steve’s eye. “I think I can do that, how ‘bout you?”

“Oh, I’m up for it,” Steve agrees. “‘Horse. Freedom. You always have a choice.’ I like these, Buck.”

They look through the rest of the cards together, a menagerie which covers the animal kingdom from Antelope to Iguana. Steve gets an idea for paintings he wants to do, as gifts to each of their friends. They pick out one card to assign to each person, and Steve does some rough sketches in his sketchbook.

Bucky does some quick searching on Google on his phone, bookmarking several pages on yoga for beginners.

  
. .  
  


California is—and Bucky is reluctant to admit it—every bit as magical as all the songs and movies made it seem. It’s fucking beautiful, and he’s mad about it.

They travel up the whole state, which takes several days, debating whether or not they want to see Washington.

  
(They compromise and go to Portland instead. They like Portland.)  
  


The next time they see a train at a crossing, Bucky reaches out his hand expectantly, holding it aloft until Steve takes it.

They don’t say a word, waiting with slow breaths and closed eyes, for the bells to signal the train’s absence.

Bucky’s not sure, but he thinks he sees a little of the tension in Steve’s shoulders drain away.  
  


. . .

  
“ _Yes_ , we made it home okay,” Steve says into the phone, leaning to drop his duffel bag on the kitchen floor. “ _No_ , we didn’t get secretly married in Vegas.”

Bucky mouths _‘who is it?’_ to which Steve mouths back, _‘Natasha.’_ They’ve been gone for most of the tail-end of July, and he hadn’t realized just how much he thought of their place as home. He wants to groan, just at the familiar smell, the feel of the cool kitchen tiles under his bare feet.

First, he’s going to take a shower, rinse off all that grime that comes with sitting in a car for six hours. Then, he’s gonna take a nap. Two naps. He’s gonna sleep for two days, probably.

When Steve says goodbye to Natasha, they trudge upstairs, bags in hand, and bicker about who gets the first shower.

“I drove more, it should be me,” Bucky argues, crabby and overtired.

“But I sweat more, and you know it,” Steve fires back, and there’s a short pause before they bust up laughing, exhausted and slap-happy from the long drive.

“Tell you what,” Bucky says amiably, looking at Steve, still gorgeous even in his rumpled t-shirt with the pit stains. “Why don’t we shower together? Save time and water.”

Steve grins. “I like the way you think,” he says, and that is that.

  
When they sleep, Bucky dreams about cowboys and desert witches, and California palm trees.    
  


He wakes to the sound of Steve’s soft snoring, and he smiles.

  
. . .  
  


The next year, everyone comes over again for Steve’s birthday weekend.

  
Natasha is currently blonde, a cool-toned shade just a notch below platinum, and wearing the tank-top Bucky got her in Colorado.

Sharon and Sam are doing a terrible job of pretending not to be in love, and it’s funny as hell to witness in person.

“Captain America’s always gotta have a Carter to keep him in line,” Bucky says slyly, and Sharon high-fives him while Sam chokes on a sip of his frozen margarita.

Tony keeps wheedling for Bucky to let him upgrade the arm, while Pepper wipes the floor with Clint at cards, smiling primly in her tasteful white sundress.

  
Steve, Scott, and Wanda go down to the beach, where Scott uses the Ant-man suit to shrink down and find pieces of sea glass and pretty stones to bring home for his daughter. Wanda makes sandcastles with her powers. Steve watches from his towel, sketching the whole scene.

When they come back, just in time to eat, Tony and Bucky are in the middle of a heated debate regarding some book series Steve’s never read, and Sharon is at the grill, piling steaks and chicken breasts on serving plates while Sam brings out a fresh pitcher of drinks.

  
It’s nice, having them all here. It feels—and Steve knows that none of them will ever be anywhere near it, but—normal. Regular. Just a guy and his partner having their close friends over for the Fourth of July. No aliens, no weapons, no adrenaline spikes or serious injuries.

They’ve all agreed not to talk shop—or in this case, SHIELD—at the table, so Steve and Bucky get to hear about how Sam brought Sharon to the annual Wilson family reunion a couple of weeks ago, and about how Wanda has been seeing a girl she met through Dr. Xavier. They hear all about the scandal at the charity ball Pepper and Tony attended in May, and about how Natasha and Clint have been addicted to some new video game.

Steve and Bucky talk about the trip they took to California for a few weeks in January, to take the edge off while winter raged in Bar Harbor, and about the raccoon living under their deck that Bucky swears he’s not trying to befriend.

Sharon slyly sips at her drink and asks when they plan on tying the knot, and Steve turns violently, burning red while Bucky mumbles something about waiting for the right time.

“I could marry you,” Tony blurts, dropping his fork loudly. “No, seriously. I’m ordained. Did it on a dare once, got the certificate and everything.”

Steve glances at Bucky, eyebrows raised. Bucky shrugs, and raises his own as if to say, _I’m in, are you?_

Steve makes a gesture in return, and half-smiles, and they turn back to face their amused friends.

“Could you do it by the old pier, down at the beach?” he asks, bumping Bucky’s shoulder with his and doing a poor job of hiding his grin. “Tomorrow?”

Tony blinks once. He blinks again.  
  
“What, seriously? You’d really—? Yeah, no, I can do that. Pep, I want it on my tombstone that I performed the wedding ceremony for Steve Rogers and Bucky Barnes,” he says, eyes glittering crazily.

“You really had to take him up on it,” Natasha sighs, shaking her head. She’s smirking, though.

“How am I supposed to be chill and casual about this?” Scott asks, clutching at empty air in front of him. “You people act like nothing has ever been cool in the history of the world, but this is _so. cool._ ”

“ _Pfft,_ ” Sam frowns, waving a hand. “Rogers, you’re a scrub. How are you not gonna even propose to the guy? Unbelievable.”

Steve gets up off the sofa to bend down on one knee in front of Bucky.

“James Buchanan Barnes,” he says solemnly, though the mood is somewhat ruined by the way he keeps wanting to laugh, “Will you marry me tomorrow at the beach in front of these pains in the ass we call our friends?”

Bucky takes Steve’s hands in his, struggling to keep from giggling.

“Steven Ulysses S. Grant Rogers,” he says, a few snickers escaping as he says it.

“You’re making that up,” Tony interjects. “That can’t be his real middle name.”

“Tony, shut up,” several people say, including Pepper. 

“Steven Ulysses S. Federal Government Grant Rogers,” Bucky continues, shaking with the laughter he’s trying hard to keep at bay, “I would be honored to marry you tomorrow at the beach, so long as you wear flowers in your hair.”

Steve gets up and sits back down next to Bucky, and they kiss long and deep while their friends whoop and applaud.

  
“Better get to work on that flower crown,” he tells everyone. “I wanna look pretty for my best guy.”  
  
  
.   
  
Bucky's sure, the next day on the beach, that there's never been a prettier bride than Steve.   
  
  
  
  
  
END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it got kind of....super fluffy. I can't help it. I'm all about that #aesthetic and I hate myself. 
> 
> But thank you to those of you leaving comments and kudos, it means the world to me! <3 Now, I have to think of what to write next ;)

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is something I've been working on since I finally saw Civil War. Spoiler alert: I did not love Iron Man 4. There were parts I loved, but I was so disappointed with the giant no-homo they did with Steve and Bucky (to the point they weren't even allowed to have like, a hug?) and I just. Ugh. 
> 
> One thing that stuck in my head, though, were those trigger words in Russian. I speak Russian, so maybe that's why they got stuck there, but they were just so....sad. Like, the word choices filled me with angst. I had to do this. 
> 
> Let me know what you think! I love feedback, and crying about the MCU. <3


End file.
